


A Midnight In Moscow

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Love, M/M, Some Humor, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5089493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after Berlin and Rome, after they have settled comfortably into their unexpected partnership, Gaby decides to ask Napoleon the one question that has been bugging her for quite some time. </p><p>“Solo? Remember when I’d asked you to take a shot at Illya, way back then in Berlin? Why didn’t you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Midnight In Moscow

Months after Berlin and Rome, after they have settled comfortably into their unexpected partnership, Gaby decides to ask Napoleon the one question that has been bugging her for quite some time. 

“Solo? Remember when I’d asked you to take a shot at Illya, way back then in Berlin? Why didn’t you?”

Napoleon lowers the newspaper in his hand and his amused gaze meets hers. She gestures at Illya who is sitting across from Napoleon with a smirk. The Russian who is about to take a second bite at his butter and jam toast, stops. He looks back and forth between his two partners. 

“When was this?” he asks, curious. 

Napoleon wants to laugh at the sight of the Russian who has his elbows propped on the kitchen counter, one toast in hand, mouth slightly agape. He certainly does not have a clue as to what Gaby is talking about. He’s wearing his brown jacket and black turtle neck shirt, and of course not forgetting his flat hat to complete his usual ensemble. And for someone who can be extremely intimidating, Illya is looking absolutely adorable at that moment. Napoleon gives him a lopsided grin.

“She’s talking about that night when you were hanging on to the back of her car, trying to stop us like a madman. It was just before you tore the boot off with your bare hands and threw it at us with your superhuman strength. I must say, Peril, I was impressed to say the least.”

Gaby cannot quite contain the giggle that comes out of her mouth after that. How different things would be if Napoleon had taken his shot then. They certainly would not be sitting around having breakfast together that morning. She moves around Illya and gently pats his arm. 

“You scared us then, Illya,” she explains but Napoleon quickly intervenes to correct her. He points a finger at Gaby.

“That was you, I was more intrigued,” he says and winks at a startled Illya.

He tries to ignore Napoleon’s gross indecent behaviour. He hates how the American could easily get under his skin and then gets off scot-free. Wanting to get away from the uneasy feeling whenever Napoleon looks at him for too long, Illya then turns to Gaby.

“So you asked him to shoot me,” Illya mutters, more like a statement than a question. 

“Yes I did since you were dragging us down. And he could have done it, he had a clear shot on you but he flatly refused to do so at that time,” Gaby continues. “And it still baffles me to do this day why he didn’t.”

Napoleon’s back to reading his newspaper but Illya’s toast is now on his plate, seemingly forgotten at the moment.

“So why didn’t you do it, Cowboy?” 

It’s Illya’s turn to ask Napoleon, his inquisitive nature quickly acting up. Hearing that, Napoleon groans inwardly. Trust Gaby to pick an interesting topic for their morning conversation. When he lowers the newspaper again, he realises to his annoyance that their eyes are on him, the expectancy of an answer heavy on his shoulders. He sighs knowing he can’t escape them now. 

“I don’t know why then neither do I have the answer for you now, Peril. So just eat your toast before it gets cold,” Napoleon mutters, before hiding his face behind the newspaper again.

Illya makes a disgruntled noise in his throat, unsatisfied at his answer and Gaby could only grin at them who have undoubtedly become two of the most important people in her life. She wonders if she had made a mistake bringing the matter up. But she would love to know Napoleon’s reason too, as it has somehow piqued her interest as well. And she’s sure she could wrangle the answer from him, when the right time comes. She’ll just have to be patient.

 

***

 

“In Rome, why did you save me from the water? No obligation for you to come back and help. You could’ve have left. It would have been easier for you because they would blame me for the failed infiltration.”

Looking at his partner in amazement, Napoleon wonders how Illya’s mind work sometimes. They are in a car in Rio, doing a surveillance job when the Russian feels the need to have a small chat. Napoleon admits there is not much excitement going on at the moment, a lull in their mission like this always seem to bore them to death, and he knows Illya’s doing this to kill time but the topic he has chosen is something Napoleon did not expect from Illya.

Down the hill, from across the street, the couple they are surveilling, a Mr. and Mrs. Morales, a high profile drug kingpin and his wife, have yet to leave their posh mansion. UNCLE intel has predicted they will leave soon to meet up with their clients, high ranking officers who are the head of several private airline companies, using the guise of their business to smuggle drugs in and out of their respective countries undetected. Mr. Morales has a list of these airlines and Napoleon is to alias as an interested party, make contact with Morales and steal the information off from him. 

While they wait for their target to make their move, Napoleon decides he’ll indulge Illya’s question but not before having a little fun of his own first.

“This morning it was Gaby who’d asked me why I didn’t shoot you in Berlin. Now it’s your turn to ask why I’d saved you in Rome? What is this? Are you both ganging up on me?”

Napoleon leans on the passenger door and shoots Illya a questioning look. Illya’s face however is obscured by the binocular he’s holding in his hands. 

“It’s not wrong to ask questions if you want answers,” The Russian says as he gives Napoleon a side glance, clenching his jaw.

“So you want answers?”

Illya grunts and hisses. “Why do you like to make things difficult? It’s a simple question.”

“I’m not making things difficult, I’m just trying to ascertain what you actually need from the question you had asked me.”

“When you ask questions, of course you need answers!”

It’s becoming too easy for Napoleon. Illya’s already squirming in his seat. He must be regretting opening his mouth now. Napoleon wants to test his patience further but when Illya gives him a death glare, he relents. He muses for a moment and then speaks.

“Okay, okay, you’re right, I could’ve left you that night. It would have been easier for me, go back to the hotel, tell Gaby and let your handler know the tragedy that had befallen you but then I sort of had an epiphany.”

He waits a moment for Illya’s retort to come but gets nothing in return. He pokes Illya’s shoulder. “You want more?”

“Explain your epiphany,” Illya says, his voice dangerously low almost like a rumble. It sends a little shiver down Napoleon’s spine. He wonders for a moment why that is and tries to focus once more on his answer. 

“I realised I couldn’t go back to Gaby with that horrible news, that her fiancé had drowned. I wasn't sure how she’d take it.”

“I am not her fiancé,” Illya argues. 

“You were her pretend fiancé then, Peril,” Napoleon says, forcing his point. “Anyway, as I was saying, I didn’t know how she’d react to that news and then I figured I didn’t just owe it to Gaby, I owe it to myself as well.”

He then looks at Illya straight in the eye. “You’re my partner, Peril. I did what I had to do, had to save you. Can’t leave you there to drown. And that’s the truth.”

“That’s it?” 

Napoleon tilts his head. “Hmm, should there be any other reason?”

Illya shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Is there?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Peril.”

Seemingly satisfied with Napoleon’s answer, Illya simply nods. They stay there, turn their attention on the mansion once more but after a few more minutes, Napoleon decides to break the silence. 

“Oh on a side note, there was this damn Italian love song playing in the truck I managed to hide in while you were going round and round in your boat being chased by Vinciguerra’s goons.”

Illya gapes at him. “What? Did you just say a love song?”

“I’m not sure of the title, but it’s some song about how this person is reminiscing about his lost love. Wouldn’t want myself to reminisce about _you_ if you had died.”

Illya’s not sure whether Napoleon is mocking him or he is just being a real damn tease.

“So you associate this song with me?” he asks, incredulous. 

“Again, you flatter yourself too much,” Napoleon grins. 

Illya finds that grin suddenly quite infectious and he feels like smacking Napoleon for it. The last thing he needs while doing his job is a distraction. But before he could say anything further, Napoleon gestures towards the house. “Here, our target’s finally decided to make their move. We’ve to go, Peril.”

It looks like Illya will have to continue their conversation again some other time. For now, they’ve got a drug lord to follow.

 

***

 

The next night, Illya lies in a prone position from across the drug lord’s warehouse they’d managed to scour from earlier. He positions his rifle at his target point, an exit door that would be Napoleon’s escape point. If anyone other than Napoleon appears from it, Illya’s order is to shoot without any hesitation. 

He checks his father’s watch. 

Napoleon should rendezvous with him in another fifteen minutes or else he’s going into the warehouse to get him. He understands why Napoleon always gets the honeypot missions but that doesn’t mean he has to like and agree with Waverly whenever the tasks is handed to his partner.

“I didn’t know this drug lord is a target for you to seduce,” he’d grumbled at Napoleon after his first initial meeting with Morales.

“I didn’t know he had a preference for men either until after our encounter, Peril.”

“This is dangerous.”

But as always, Napoleon had been dismissive and nonchalant to Illya’s argument.

“Relax, just stick to the plan and everything will be fine. And besides, it’s not like it’s the first time I’m doing this.”

“Don’t be complacent. This drug kingpin, he is dangerous person. You better watch your back, Cowboy.”

Illya understands how much Napoleon hates it when he worries unnecessarily, he feels Illya doesn’t trust him enough to do his job. But to Illya, it’s not about trust issues. He trusts Napoleon well enough, knows he’s a good agent enough to get the job done. It is Napoleon’s willingness to go into an unknown territory that puts his life at risk that worries Illya the most. The fear that Napoleon might come out scathed. 

“Another seven minutes, then I’m going in after Cowboy,” Illya says to Gaby through their communication speaker.

“Solo’s good at this, do not worry. Give him time,” he hears Gaby say, like an assurance. She’s waiting for them in their escape car about a hundred yards further back, hidden amongst some trees on a dirt road, a good spot in which Illya had picked. 

“Don’t be rash, Illya. Just wait.”

Illya shifts a little to his right, his trigger finger ready on his sniper rifle.

“The tracker shows he’s on the move, Illya. It won’t be long before he comes out of there. Be ready,” Gaby informs him a few seconds later. For missions like these, he’s glad Napoleon’s got them trackers on. He can never trust to let him go without it.

“I’m still here, waiting,” he replies, his voice steady. He’s slightly assured to know Napoleon’s safe but he cannot afford to let his guard down, not until he sees him with his very own eyes. A few minutes later, after bursting through the exit door, Napoleon’s running up the hill towards him with two pursuers hot on his tracks. Napoleon takes a shot at one of them, hits the man square on the chest. The man tumbles back like a ragdoll. Illya aims for the other, shoots with deadly accuracy, hits him right between his eyes. 

“Let’s go, Peril,” Napoleon gasps, a little out of breath. Once he’s upon Illya, he gestures at the disk in his hand. “I got the list.”

“Good,” Illya replies as he falls in step beside his partner. 

“Are you alright?” he asks Napoleon later after they’ve stumbled into the backseat of their getaway car. Illya’s hand reaches out at the bruise already forming on Napoleon’s left cheek. It looks painful. “How did this happen?”

“As usual, my mouth got me in trouble but other than this, I’m good,” Napoleon explains, winces a little at Illya’s touch.

“Hmm, you are too reckless, Cowboy.”

There’s clear worry in his voice, Napoleon could tell. He says it’s nothing to worry about and squeezes Illya’s shoulder to reassure him. “I’m really okay.”

Before Napoleon could protest, Illya is already hooking his fingers on Napoleon’s chin, guides his face to the side so he could examine his face better. He grumbles. “It’s going to swell.”

“I’ll put ice on it later,” Napoleon promises, hoping the brooding Russian will let it go. Then all of a sudden, he throws Illya a cheeky smile for good measure. “But to appease you, you can do the honours for me? And after that I’ll let you do a full body inspection on me later, what say you? You know, to check for further bruises and scratches.”

Illya growls between gritted teeth. "Cowboy, don't start."

Hearing that, Gaby lets out a loud choking noise. She rolls her eyes as she watches them through the rearview mirror from her driver’s seat. “I’m still here, boys! Not blind or deaf.”

Napoleon only laughs heartily and Illya just wants to shoot him there and then.

 

***

 

After their successful mission in Rio, the trio jet sets to Dover, England two weeks later for their next assignment but only after a day in that town, Illya somehow finds himself stuck in a record store with Gaby just because she says she wants to add on to her collection. He knows Gaby loves her music and how much she loves to dance and that’s how he had ended up agreeing with her when she had dragged him into the shop. He patiently waits as she browses through the available selection in the quaint shop she had somehow managed to spot while they’re doing their reconnaissance. He is a little unhappy though because Gaby is taking too much time, something which Illya thinks they cannot afford to waste.

“Chop Shop girl, how much longer is this going to take?”

Gaby shakes her head. “Be patient, Illya. We have plenty of time.”

Illya huffs as he glances at his watch. “We need to meet Solo in ten minutes. You better hurry.”

A few more minutes of pulling and putting back records from and onto the shelf when finally she stops at one particular record. Gaby lets out a soft laugh. “Now this is a coincidence.”

Illya who is leaning against the shelf beside her sticks out his neck to look over her shoulder. “What is?”

She hands him the record in her hands. 

“This was playing that night after Solo took me over the wall. After that he took me to this dingy place I assume is a safe house, and while we waited for Sanders, he cooked me some risotto, which I said tasted like feet. I lied just to spite him when in fact it had actually tasted quite good. Anyway, that was playing in the background while he was cooking and after that while I ate.”

The record title reads ‘ _A Midnight In Moscow by Kenny Ball and His Jazzmen_.’ Illya hums. “Well Cowboy does love his jazz.”

“Considering we had just encountered a Russian super spy hours before that, Solo couldn’t have picked a better song to play. The title might as well have been ‘A Midnight Rendezvous with a Moscow Super Agent’.”

Illya rolls his eyes at Gaby’s lame and ridiculous attempt at naming a song. He realises then that’s twice now in a space of a month that Gaby has brought up Berlin, bringing back memories Illya has stored deep in the recesses of his mind. It hadn’t been a particularly fun experience for Illya to remember, being dropped in the middle of the most heavily fortified frontiers, defined by a barbed wire, alarms, anti vehicle ditches, watchtowers, automatic booby traps and minefields. Yes, Illya remembers that night fully well. He could not thank Napoleon and Gaby enough for it.

“Are you going to buy this?” he asks her. He notices she’s trying hard to read what he’s thinking and wonders whether she had picked the record on purpose. 

“Yes, I think I’ll get that. I want to surprise Solo. I wonder if he remembers?”

“How come you remember it?”

Gaby muses. “Well, while Solo and his fellow CIA agents were busy discussing _you_ , I was in the kitchen alone, eating and listening to this,” she says, grabs the record off Illya’s hand. “So how can I not? It’s not hard when it’s one of the more essential moments in your life.”

“Essential?” Illya asks in confusion.

“Please, I had just been chased through the streets of Berlin, my car shot at, then later swung over the border holding onto Solo for dear life. I think that counts as essential for me. It’s not everyday I get to go through a momentous occasion like that,” Gaby answers, her eyes wide and hands on hips, looking a little annoyed at Illya’s questioning. 

Illya doesn’t say a thing after that and watches quietly as Gaby walks over to the counter to make payment for her purchase. While he’s trying to forget Berlin, Gaby thinks it’s essential. How their opinion differs. 

 

***

 

“So why didn’t you shoot Illya in Berlin?”

Napoleon had put on the record Gaby had purchased, laughed when Gaby told him she had listened to it the night he had cooked her his very expensive feet tasting risotto, when she had decided to bring that topic up again. He leans back on the sofa, eyes on Gaby curiously as she sways to the jazzy dance music playing in the background.

“I don’t know, Gaby. Why are we still talking about this by the way?”

“Because I didn’t get the answer I want from you the other day,” she answers in exasperation.

“But why does it matter?”

“I’m curious,” Gaby says, feet still tapping to the beat of the music. “You didn’t know Illya then. And before that, when you’d said to me ‘ _drive when you hear something like a gunshot_ ’, you did take a shot at him. That is before you had a good look at his face.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at her. “And what is that supposed to mean, Miss Teller?”

She stops dancing and for a moment hesitates before walking over to the turntable to turn the record off. Then she struts to Napoleon, plops herself down beside him on the sofa. She leans her head in one hand, elbow against the cushion. 

“I think I asked you take a shot at him and then when you saw him, you’d said something like you didn’t think it was the right thing to do.”

Napoleon chuckles. “You actually remember what I’d said.”

“Yes I do. And the question now is, why?”

Gaby is such a small person but she can be feisty and relentless when she wants something. She never backs down from a challenge and knows how to win one when thrown into such a situation. Napoleon understands she will not let go of this topic, not until she gets the answer she wants from him.

He sighs. He wills his mind to return to that night months ago, picturing Illya in his head. He remembers referring Illya to Sanders as ‘it’. He’s not particularly proud of himself for that. 

“Illya’s something else, isn’t he?”

Gaby is a little surprised to hear that revelation from Napoleon, although she’s not going to argue with him over it. 

“Yes, he is,” Gaby says, waits for him to continue. Napoleon rubs his face in his hands. 

“I’ve never really thought about it but if you really want an answer, I guess when I saw him that night, I saw someone who’s a polar opposite of me. He’s so determined to his cause, a dedicated KGB agent with so much honour running through his veins, I know straightaway by the look on his face he’d die for his country and then there I was at the same moment, trying to help you escape because I was told to do so and yet I was put in that situation because I had no other choice.”

“Illya didn’t have a choice either,” Gaby says thoughtfully.

“Yes but the difference was he believes in what he does, believes in what he’s fighting for. As for me, I was just serving my fucked up sentence with the CIA. I didn’t care for much else. That’s why I couldn’t shoot him. Illya didn’t deserve it, to get shot at by a worthless agent like me.”

Gaby gasps. A little knot forms in her gut at hearing Napoleon’s confession. “Solo, you’re not worthless,” she argues, her voice serious. 

“I suppose that’s debatable but you wanted an answer for your question, Miss Teller and there it is. There’s my answer. Satisfied?”

Gaby suddenly feels utterly ashamed for having put Napoleon on the spot. She never thought Napoleon suffers from self worth issues and it breaks her heart a little. Yes, he could be impossibly infuriating, could be an annoying cocky bastard when he wants to, but what she has learned the months they’ve been together as partners is that he is also a sweetheart with the kindest of heart and knows she could trust Napoleon with her life, and Illya as well. She hates to think Napoleon’s questioning his worth at all. 

“You’re more than what you think of yourself, Solo. And I’m not saying this just to boost your already huge ego.”

Napoleon lets out a dry laugh. “Come on, Gaby. We don’t need to get dramatic about this. But the truth is I can tell, no one really gives a shit about me. And I’m used to it. It’s no big deal.”

“Hey!” Gaby snaps, angry at what she’s hearing. “You’re wrong, Solo. You have me and Illya. We care about you.”

He gives a start and considers her words. It’s true he has Illya and Gaby now but the truth in what she’s said are the exact reasons why he prefers working alone. He has so much to lose now. And it is terrifying. 

Willing the uneasy feeling away, Napoleon smiles at Gaby. “Put the record on again. I want to see you dance.”

She knows he’s trying to change the subject but if it makes Napoleon happy than Gaby is willing to oblige. For that one night, she wants to make whatever doubt he has in his mind disappear. She does as she’s told.

From the other side of the room, unknown to the two agents, Illya leans against the wall, closes his eyes as he takes his headphone off, tosses his listening device on his bed. He’s done listening to them for the time being. Napoleon’s words however sticks with him for the rest of the night.

 

***

 

“Why do you never listen to me?!”

Illya is angry at Napoleon, whose arm is now all bloodied. A bullet had hit him while they’d been fighting off and dodging their assailants. Illya had told him to make it for the exit but the American had been adamant, insisting Illya needed his help. They had made it out somehow but now they are stuck in an alleyway, hiding behind some boxes and stacks of wooden crates, waiting and hoping their pursuers would give up their chase. 

“You’re an idiot!” Illya has not stopped grumbling and it is beginning to get on Napoleon’s nerves.

“Oh come on, Peril, you would’ve done the same thing,” he argues, hisses at the pain stinging his flesh. He leans heavily against the wall as Illya peers behind the crates, keeps a lookout for their enemies. He glances at Napoleon who’s gone quiet, worries a little when he sees the grimace on his face. 

“How bad is it?” he asks in a hushed tone. He hopes they could make it out of there soon enough. He knows fully well the wound needs attending to, doesn’t want him to risk an infection. “Cowboy?”

“I’ve had worse,” comes Napoleon’s reply. He’s slid down to the floor now. “I would love though not to spend the rest of the night here, if that’s possible.”

The silence, save for their own ragged breathings, are the only sound that could be heard after a while. Once Illya is certain the coast is clear, he offers his hand at Napoleon and pulls him upright. When he starts to put an arm around his waist, Napoleon pulls back. He refuses his help, says he is fine and that he can manage well on his own. Illya could see the slick shine of blood on his black shirt, trickling down his injured arm. He frowns.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Napoleon mutters before Illya could open his mouth. “Let’s go, Peril. Gaby’s gonna wonder about us.”

Illya only nods. For now, he will let Napoleon have his way.

 

***

 

“What the hell happened?”

Gaby is on Napoleon as soon as she sees him walk through their hotel door, quickly examining his injury. She gasps when she sees his torn flesh. Napoleon on the other hand is quick to dismiss her worry. 

“It’s nothing much, just a scratch, Teller.”

She narrows her eyes at him and then darts her gaze at Illya who is still hovering at the door, looking visibly upset, angry even. Gaby knows that look too well, knows better than to ask anything further. She could sense the tension between them, knows Illya is about to burst at any second. When Napoleon starts to make for the bedroom, Illya barks, asks him to stop. He turns around in annoyance.

“What?”

There is a moment of silence, where one could hear a pin drop, before Illya starts to pour his thoughts out.

“Cowboy here thinks he knows better. Thinks he knows everything. He can’t even listen to simple instructions,” he growls, takes a step closer towards Napoleon. “I’ve never met anyone as stubborn as this American in my life.”

“Oh come on! There were six of them thugs against you alone? You don’t stand a chance, Peril!”

“I told you I could handle it! I told you to get out, make for the exit with the information we had but instead you feel the need to be a human shield for me and looked what happened?!”

“Boys, please,” Gaby warns, tries to stop the argument from spiralling out of control but they totally ignore her.

“For fuck’s sakes, we had the information we needed, we are fine, alive and well. What else do you want, Peril?”

“Idiot! Well? You are not well! And it could be worse! You could have—”

“Died?” Napoleon says, finishing Illya’s sentence. “It comes with the job, Illya.”

“If your job is dying, then it is my job to make sure you don’t die on my watch because you seem to have a death wish!” Illya roars.

They are practically yelling at each other at the top of their voices, eyes glaring, nostrils flaring and at one point Illya has walked right up to Napoleon, almost shoving him back against the wall behind him. He doesn’t care anymore about the blood trickling down Napoleon’s arm, he just wants to knock some sense into his stubborn American head. 

“Boys! Please stop it or I swear to God I will shoot you both myself!” Gaby shouts as she runs up and stands in between them, facing a red faced Illya. “Stop it!”

Illya’s itching to collide his fist with Napoleon’s face but at the same time badly wants to attend to his wound, to make sure he’s safe and not hurting. Gaby somehow senses the conflict going on in Illya’s mind and puts her palm against his chest. She shakes her head at him, pleads with her eyes. “It’s not the time to argue, Illya.”

Gaby’s voice goes right through him. He watches Napoleon, his face covered in a fine layer of sweat, chest heaving in anger and that bit of blood still dripping from his arm. 

“Do something about that,” Illya growls, gesturing at his injured arm. In the midst of all the yelling and arguing, Napoleon almost forgets about the pain shooting up and down his arm. 

“I’m going to go clean this up,” Napoleon finally says, more to Gaby than Illya, then storms off towards the bathroom. Illya starts to follow suit but Gaby stops him.

“Illya, don’t. Leave him be.”

“He needs help,” he protests but Gaby stands firm, shakes her head. “He’ll manage just fine. And I think for now both of you need a little space from each other.”

His temper dwindles for a moment and thinks about his outburst at Napoleon. It had been worry, pure worry and nothing else. Out of frustration, his rage returns, the red mist clouding his judgment once again. He growls, his hand goes for a nearby lamp stand, ready to smash it to the floor when Gaby grabs his wrist, stops him from wreaking more havoc.

“No, Illya! No.”

Illya’s body heaves. He turns towards Gaby, then mutters what’s obviously been bothering him, tries to make her understand it as well. “He’s not dispensable. Cowboy thinks he is, but he is not.”

“I know, Illya,” Gaby soothes. “We’ll just have to talk to him slowly, okay?”

Illya knows this and he will have to confront Napoleon sooner rather than later. 

 

***

 

Illya hears the soft music coming from the main lounge room of their suite. He gets off his bed, checks on the time. It reads 2.45 in the morning. He shuffles to his door, opens it slowly and takes a peek. A soft light illuminates the room. He sees Napoleon sitting on the sofa, his head leaning back against the cushions with eyes closed. A sudden rush of guilt washes over Illya at the sight of him as he knows how close they had come to blows with each other. He walks over to the American agent.

“Solo? Why aren’t you asleep?”

Illya assumes he’s awake. He waits for a moment and then not long after, Napoleon’s lips curl up slightly but his eyes are still closed. He pats the empty space beside him. “Want to join me here? I can’t sleep.”

“Your music woke me up,” Illya mutters. He then scans the room and sees the empty glass on the mini bar. “Are you drunk? Have you been drinking?”

“Just plain water, Peril. I’ll have a fucking headache if it’s alcohol.”

“It has never stopped you before,” Illya retorts but Napoleon doesn’t answer.

After a while, Napoleon feels the cushion beside him shift. He opens his eyes to see Illya sitting right next to him, his body facing him slightly. There is turmoil going inside his head, working overtime, probably trying to articulate words to say to him. Napoleon knows him well enough.

“What is it, Peril?”

“I’m sorry about earlier, Cowboy,” Illya admits, voice hardly above a whisper. But Napoleon catches every single word. 

“It’s not even your fault, why the hell are you even apologising?”

“Because I almost hit you, not because of your stupidity of getting shot at,” Illya scoffs, just when Napoleon thinks the Russian has surprised him with his little act of humility.

“I almost enjoyed that little moment of victory and then you go and spoilt it,” he chuckles much to Illya’s irritation. The Russian straightens up to meet Napoleon’s gaze straight on. 

“How’s the arm?”

Napoleon jostles it slightly. “I’ll live.”

Illya takes in a deep breath. 

“What were you thinking then, Cowboy? I told you I had it under control.”

Illya’s voice is deep, intimidating. The anger is still there, bubbling beneath the surface and Napoleon knows Illya will not back down from their earlier argument, not just yet. But he doesn’t know what it is that he wants from him. What does Illya want him to say? 

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re still angry for whatever it is that I’d done. I’m guessing you’re angry that I’d gone and got myself shot. I’ll try not to do it again? Alright?”

A few heartbeats later, Illya speaks again. “I heard what you told Gaby.”

Illya’s lost him there and then. “What did I tell Gaby?” Napoleon asks, puzzled.

“The reason why you didn’t shoot me in Berlin. And what you think of yourself.”

Napoleon sighs. He forgets Illya keeps the rooms bugged all the time. He feels scandalised for a moment that he had listened to their conversation but tries to push his annoyance away. He wonders, however, where Illya is going with the conversation. 

“What’s Berlin got to do with you being such an angry bastard tonight?” 

“I’m angry because you think so little of yourself. To the point you think you’re dispensable. _You are not_.”

Among the many people Illya have met during his profession as a spy, no one frustrates him more than Napoleon. No one else comes close. This audacious, handsome, dangerously charming man knows just how to push his limits and sometimes Illya doesn’t know whether to strangle him or just smother him with a kiss. He desperately wants to do the latter at that moment but he fights his urge. There are more important issues to address, more important things he needs to put into the American’s stubborn head. He is trying his best to make Napoleon see that he’s not merely a tool in this business they are in, especially not to him. He’s not going to stand for him dying just because he feels he’s got nothing to lose. 

“Do you understand what I say, Cowboy? If something happens to you, it’ll be a loss for me.”

Napoleon’s rendered speechless for a moment. He doesn’t know how to respond to Illya’s scathing admission. He tries to interject humour to ease some of the tension that has built up in the last few seconds. “The same way if you were to lose Gaby?”

Illya shudders inside. Both agents are equally important to Illya. Losing either one of them would be a catastrophe but losing Napoleon would mean losing a person who has somehow become his necessity, a reason for Illya to keep going, the fear of losing him too great for his mind to fathom. Illya shakes his head, wills the awful thoughts away. 

“Of course it is,” Illya lies in the end. 

Napoleon nods as if understanding. “I’m sorry again, Peril,” he mutters. 

He studies the Russian’s face for a moment, tries to read something he feels that’s not quite adding up to the story. After a while, Napoleon gives up. Then he goes and do something that makes Illya’s body stiffens. He puts his feet up, lies down on the sofa with his head on Illya’s lap, his fingers laced together on his stomach. Illya freezes, not quite sure what to do with his hands at his sides.

“Do you like this music, Peril?” Napoleon asks a second or two later. Gaby’s record is still playing in the background.

“Gaby picked this at the record shop,” Illya says. Napoleon looks up at the Russian. “I cooked her risotto that night in Berlin. This was playing then and she says this song will always remind her of me.”

“She told me this. And she also says your risotto tasted like feet.”

Napoleon laughs and the vibration shudders through Illya’s body, a delicious delight he tries his best to hide. He hopes his body doesn’t betray him. 

“You must cook me some of this soon,” he quickly says, hopes it’ll be a distraction enough for Napoleon. The American only smiles. Illya’s hands that are previously stiff at his sides somehow have made their way to Napoleon’s head, his fingers threading his hair gently. He brushes away the strands of hair on Napoleon’s forehead. The touch of Illya’s fingers on his skin makes him shudder. 

“Are you scared of me, Cowboy?” he murmurs. 

“No,” Napoleon answers, his eyes never leaving Illya’s. “Are _you_ scared of me?”

Illya’s stomach tightens. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s good to know.”

“But I worry.”

It’s confession time.

Napoleon tilts his head. “Worry?”

“I worry what you would do, just to keep me and Gaby safe.”

His fingers in Napoleon’s hair has stopped moving but Illya keeps it there, tries to hold him still. But Napoleon manages to wriggle away and props himself up on his elbows. He then sits and turns to face Illya. 

“Peril, I know how you are, how you work. You’re a dedicated man. You’ve honour, you won’t let your fellow agents down, do whatever it takes to keep them safe. So in that sense, I worry about you too.”

“You’ve honour too, Solo. Do not think for one second that you’re not worthy.”

Their night have taken an entirely different route than how it had started. Hours ago, the tension between them had been taut, palpable and now it’s a different kind of tension altogether. Napoleon leans in closer, says, “Illya, I want to do something but please don’t kill me when—”

But Illya’s faster, because he has no time for words. He pulls Napoleon by the collar and captures his lips in a kiss, gentle but hungry at the same time, drawing soft sighs from his partner. 

“I get now why you’re so angry,” Napoleon mutters after that, his cheeks reddened and flushed, his eyes half lidded. “You should’ve just told me.”

“I tried but you don’t listen, Cowboy,” Illya growls. He moves in to attach his lips on Napoleon’s neck, just above his pulse point, making Napoleon moan. He murmurs lowly, voice husky as he kisses his jaw, whispers in his ear, “You’re a thief, Cowboy, a thief who likes to steal things.”

Napoleon pulls back from Illya’s grasp, holds him at arm's length. “And what have I stolen from you?”

“You know,” Illya simply says knowingly. He leans in and kisses him again.

Later, much much later, they sit on the sofa together, with Napoleon’s one arm around Illya, his head on his shoulder. The act is smooth and natural as if he has sought Illya’s warmth and comfort of his closeness a hundred times before. Illya kisses the top of Napoleon’s head.

“The name of the Italian love song is ‘ _Che Vuole Questa Musica Stasera’_.”

Napoleon’s dumbstruck again.

“What?” 

“The song you told me about, the one you heard in that truck in Rome, about someone thinking of his lost love, that is the name. I asked Gaby to check.”

Napoleon laughs again. “Gaby definitely knows her music.”

“And so you will associate this song to me?”

Napoleon leans up and seeks Illya’s lips. “But I haven't lost you, I've just found you.”

Somewhere in the background, Gaby smiles with such warmth in her heart as she watches the sight before her and mutters ‘ _finally_ ’ to herself.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the title for this fic. It is from the song 'A Midnight In Moscow'.
> 
>  
> 
> [Listen to A Midnight In Moscow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbrXHMYAz-E)


End file.
